Bad Wolf
by WeAreG0ld3n
Summary: [SuperWhoLock] The Winchesters enlist the help of Sherlock Holmes as they investigate an immortal man, and stumble across The Bad Wolf. [Timelines are blended together to the best of my ability. Keep in mind that these are three separate shows, running on three separate timelines.]
1. Chapter 1

"It's everywhere."

"What?"

A sheaf of papers landed on John Watson's keyboard, earning a small huff of irritation. He glanced up, eyebrows raised, though the expression on the detectives face made him sit up and take notice, move his laptop onto the coffee table, and thumb through the papers. Nothing jumped out, no obvious case, just graffiti. Pages and pages of graffiti, photographed and arranged.

John couldn't help but laugh. "Vandalism? Bit of a step down, don't you think?"

Honestly, that had been his first thought too, when the clients had arrived that morning. Graffiti, all over the country, the same phrase repeating itself. Some tedious little craze, pop culture, perhaps? Sherlock had suggested as much, a little derisively, and dismissed the case as a waste of his time and skill set. The shorter brother- oh, they were brothers, introduced as 'colleagues', though Sherlock didn't buy that for a second- had bristled, become instantly defensive.

"I thought as much myself. Keep looking."

"Bad Wolf..." John mused, frowning down at the various photographs, all displaying the same words, in the form of graffiti, on the side of buses, walls, bridges, anywhere and everywhere. "What does that mean, anyway? Bad wolf. What does it stand for?"

"It doesn't stand for anything."

"No?"

John leaned out to drop the papers, shifting his computer back onto his lap. He tapped the phrase into a search engine. Nothing jumped out on the first page. A book with the same title, written years earlier, a news article about a wolf attack in Minnesota, an animal rights campaign... nothing relevant.

"There's nothing."

"Of course there's nothing. I told you. It doesn't mean anything."

"So... why are you interested?"

Sherlock crossed to the sofa opposite, dropping down, letting his feet hang off the end, arm folded behind his head. The action was so languid, so utterly uninterested, it very nearly drove John to snap with impatience. Somehow, he bit his tongue.

"Turn the page."

Of course, he couldn't simply explain himself. That would be too easy. On the next page was a photograph of a man, taken from a distance in a crowd. Tall, all ruffled hair and long coat. Nothing on Sherlock. What was it about men like that? John shook his head, refocusing.

He cleared his throat. "Alright... So, who's this guy?"

"I don't know." Sherlock grimaced. The words tased foreign on his tongue. "That one was taken in 2006."

"Right."

Honestly, John couldn't understand the faint smirk playing around Sherlock's lips, nor the sense of quiet, gleeful satisfaction in his tone.

"Next page."

John watched him for a few seconds, mouth half open in confusion, trying to make the connection without having to ask. He turned the page. Another photograph, this one older, the grainy image of a soldier. Not waiting to be prompted this time, John flipped the page, and kept turning. Photographs, seven to be exact, all older than the last, varying in quality.

Honestly, he couldn't quite make a connection. Not for lack of trying. Eventually, he had to admit he had nothing, shaking his head.

Really, that had been what Sherlock wanted. It was no fun when he couldn't show off, and this was a good one. He unfolded himself from the sofa, strolling to lean on the back of John's chair, slipping the photographs from his hand, arranging them in order.

Each picture contained the image of a man, the dark haired man, or someone similar. Logic would suggest- and, if John didn't think logically by now, what hope was there?- that it couldn't possibly be the same man, though the resemblance was uncanny.

"Ellis Island, 1892. A face in the crowd of an awful shot, but you'd be an idiot to miss it" Sherlock murmured in his ear, startling him.

The proximity left John with a little heat in his cheeks, though he took the photograph and zoned in on the figure pointed out, entirely thankful he had something to focus on. Sherlock eased the photograph from his hand, tossing it aside to replace with the second.

"Lahore, 1909."

A group of soldiers, one circled.

"1921. Some sort of underground... freak show, perhaps. Traveling circus of some kind. I can't find a record. There he is. India, 1924, just a face in the crowd all over again. London, an air force officer, 1941. A council estate in the 1990s, and, of course, Cardiff, 2006."

Sherlock paused to get a read on John's expression with a somewhat smug smirk. "Have you got it yet?"

"Ah..." John frowned, sitting up, scratching his jaw. "So, they're, what, related? Got to be, right, with a resemblance like that."

"Again. That's what I thought." Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. "You're almost on form today."

That was very nearly a compliment. No. Thought. Past tense. So, he had changed his mind? John frowned, glancing up to meet Sherlock's eye, making no secret of his confusion now.

The sixth photograph was thrust into John's hands. It had been taken from a balcony of what seemed to be a block of flats on a cheap Polaroid camera. In a courtyard below a group of children were visible on the edge of the shot, though the focus was on a man, hands stuffed into the pockets of what was fast becoming a familiar navy trench coat, watching the group.

"So... you've got yourself a dodgy bloke hanging around in the shadows, there. So what?"

Sherlock sighed wistfully. "And there I was thinking you were keeping up. The wall. Look at the wall."

John frowned, squinting down at the image. It was difficult to make out, though the wall was plastered with posters and graffiti. It was nigh on impossible to read.

"Bad Wolf." Sherlock murmured.

He was certain. John, on the other hand, not so convinced. He grimaced. "Well... it _could_ be."

"No could be. It is."

Before he could protest, or even think of what he might say, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sherlock pushed back from the chair, leaving John to stare idly at the photograph. Voices traveled up the hall, unfamiliar and low, breaking John from his reverie, pushing himself to his feet to meet the clients as they made their way up the stairs.

Two of them, John figured. That guess was soon proved accurate. The first was tall, hands thrust into his pockets, moving with little grace, though he pulled up an easy smile, the sort that made a person warm to him. The second was a little stockier, serious, on guard. Less reassuring. He watched John like he were weighing him up, and didn't return his slightly quizzical smile.

John disregarded the unfriendly gaze, offering a hand to the taller of the two, deciding he was marginally more approachable. "John Watson."

It had been the right call.

"Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean." He shook John's hand once, gesturing back at the blond.

Dean didn't bother to acknowledge John, much to his irritation. He wasn't there to make friends, he was there for information. He turned to face Sherlock, having returned to the sofa, seemingly uninterested in the company.

"Hey. You're sure you can trust this guy?"

Sherlock cracked an eye open at the question, glancing over at John, feigning contemplation. Awfully untrusting. Forever on guard. Noted.

"Implicitly."

Dean tutted. That would just have to do. Rather than stand awkwardly in the middle of the sitting room, he straightened his shoulders, striding across to lean against the window ledge. "So. What've you got?"

"John? Folder. Kitchen table."

A thousand comments sprung to mind, each with more choice words than the last, though John begrudgingly pushed himself to his feet. He offered his now vacant chair to the taller brother with a jerk of his head, disappearing to root through the mess on the table, listening all the while.

"The one with the graffiti. I found the source, a police report, dated October 1997." Sherlock paused, reaching up to take the folder from John as he returned, checking the first few pages, before tossing it across to Dean.

"First page. By the name of Jackie Tyler, a single Mother from the Powell Estate."

"That's in Peckham, right?" John glanced across at Sherlock. "I had a girlfriend living there. It's about a twenty minute drive."

"Mm. Single Mother. Convinced her daughter was being stalked, by a man no one recognized. Even took a few pictures to back up her claim." Sherlock yawned idly, sitting up. "Dismissed as paranoid."

"Where is she now? Tyler?"

Sherlock shrugged indifferently. That was apparently enough for Dean to scoff impatiently, tossing the file down on the coffee table. The attitude of this guy was starting to grate on his nerves. He had just opened his mouth to make some biting comment, as John stepped forwards, scooping up the folder to scan through the information himself. Something about the shorter man's impatience was beginning to grate on his nerves.

"Ah... well, there's this. The daughter again. She went missing in 2005, there was an investigation, but no trace. Just walked right back into the flat, exactly a year later, with a stranger in tow and wouldn't beathe a word as to where she had been. Case closed."

John closed the file, meeting Sherlock's eye for a moment. Seemed he wasn't going to be helpful in the least. Wonderful. He hesitated, letting his gaze drift between the blond and his brother before he spoke.

"Not too long ago, only a few years out. I'd say it's a safe bet they're still living there."

"Reasonable assumption." Sherlock agreed with a nod.

First he was on form, now he was making reasonable assumptions? John very nearly had to double take.

"Hm. See why you keep this guy around." Dean murmured, raking a hand through his hair.

"So, we start there. Follow the address on the report, right?" Sam spoke for the first time, earning himself an approving glance from his brother.

"Right."


	2. Chapter 2

The rented Ford Escort was, perhaps, inconspicuous on the Powell Estate. That didn't mean Dean was happy to be behind the wheel. His knuckles were white, fists clenched, arms folded against his chest, and no amount of Creedence Clearwater, volume on low, could improve his mood.

"Thought England was supposed to be pretty and proper."

Across the courtyard, a boy no older than fifteen was making an addition to the wall, in obnoxious green, scarf pulled up over his nose to keep from inhaling the fumes. The first few droplets of rain had landed on the windscreen, starting to obscure their view.

Dean pushed back in his seat, closing his eyes. "I really hope we're not wasting our time, Sammy."

"Sitting right here, or working with this Holmes?"

"Holmes. How'd he know?"

Sam frowned, shifting his elbow against the door, resting his chin on his hand. He didn't need to ask what he meant. The second Sherlock Holmes had laid eyes upon either, he had known. Everything.

'That's funny. You work for Scotland Yard... Is that so? Hm. I'm not quite sure where to begin. Perhaps the accents. Laughable. I'd advise you drop them, immediately, to save whatever dignity you've retained. Now, investigators yourselves, I presume, from your line of questioning, not very subtle I'm afraid. Relatives, more than colleagues, I'd assume... brothers, it's all in your expression.'

He had glanced Dean's way at that, head cocked to one side, thoughtful. Taken a few steps closer, strolling around a tight jawed hunter in silence.

'Concealed weapons. Smith & Wesson. You practically live on the road. Haven't had a solid nights sleep in weeks. And you're here because you're running out of options. Neither of you want to be here. Neither of you want to ask for help. Yet... here you are. You need me. So. Let's drop the act, and take a seat, shall we?'

Sam simply shrugged, watching the boy finish up with his spray paint, stuff the can into his pocket and step back to admire his work.

"Guy's a genius."

Dean snorted. "Guy's an asshole."

"Maybe." Sam sat forwards, squinting through the misted windshield. "Oh, shit..."

The curse snapped up Dean's attention. He sat upright so abruptly his neck clicked, leaning over to follow his gaze. Obnoxious green had finally formed two words, visible now the boy stepped back.

Bad Wolf.

He was out of the car, sprinting across the courtyard before Sam could even register the door was open. Of course. All action, no discussion. Sam followed at a stroll, taking the time to lock the escort, figuring anything could go missing if you turned your back long enough around here, no matter how crappy and outdated.

The boy had been collared by the time Sam made it across the courtyard, squirming uncomfortably.

"Get him off me, what the fuck is wrong with him?"

Sam laughed. "Take it easy. Tell you what." He ducked his head to meet the boy's insolent gaze. "We won't rat you out for this little art project of yours, if you answer a couple questions. How does that sound?"

"Fucking yanks..."

"Bad Wolf." Dean shook him by the collar. "Whats it mean?"

The boy glanced up at the graffiti, perplexed. "Dunno. Just... something people say, ain't it?"

"Who?"

"People! Just, people, that's all. Been about for years."

Neither had anticipated the woman standing on the balcony a few floors up, watching them with a mug of tea in hand as they sat in the car, scoping out the building. Something odd about that pair, she had muttered under her breath, to no one in particular. Jackie Tyler made comments to thin air an awful lot these days. No one around to hear them, unless Debbie, or one of the girls popped around.

It wasn't Debbie or the girls Jackie was waiting on.

Still, Jackie wasn't above keeping her eyes peeled for something new. Fresh meat, as it were. And, had they not been pestering Tina's boy, from upstairs, she would've spent another pleasant few minutes admiring the strangers, lurking in parked cars or not.

It took her two minutes to set her mug down on the hall table and step into her slippers, storm downstairs, and clip the shortest of the two around the head, pulling him back from the boy, who ducked out from under his arm, sprinting off towards the stairs.

"What do you think you're doing, grabbing little boys like that! I should have you arrested, he's a minor you know! That's... that's abduction, that is."

"No, no- we're not trying to abduct anyone, we were just asking..." Sam trailed off under the glare thrown his way.

"I don't care what you were just doing, we get enough weirdos around here for me to know exactly what you were bloody well doing!"

Dean paused, scanning her over, one hand at the back of his now pulsing head. The woman could throw a mean slap, he'd give her that. She was ever so slightly familiar. He was pretty sure they'd found their mark.

"Like- like the one watching Rose?"

That caught her up short, and she stumbled backwards a few steps, expression scandalised. "Who told you about Rose?"

Sam stepped in, thinking fast. "We're friends. Used to know her."

"Friends? I've never seen you about." And, Jackie was quite convinced she would have remembered these two. No, there was something odd about the pair, and she wasn't buying it. "You ought to stay away from me, and Rose for that matter. I'll call the police, I mean it."

"Is she here?" Dean finally dropped his hand from his head, stepping forwards. "Rose? We think she can help us. She's- in trouble."

If any one sentence in the world could slow down Jackie Tyler in a rage, it was that one. Within ten minutes, the Winchesters were on the sofa of a messy flat, with fresh mugs of tea in hand, and an all-too animated woman, sorting through boxes of old photographs and letters, an assortment of memories filed away.

"I hadn't thought about it for years, actually. There they are."

She dropped a collection of photographs, all Polaroids, tied together with an elastic band on the coffee table.

"He never spoke to her, never went anywhere near her. Made sure of that too, asked her a thousand times. She didn't have a clue, hadn't noticed him." Jackie took a contemplative sip of her tea. "I didn't notice him at first. Just- used to stand there, right on the corner. I thought he lived around here at first, but he never got close. Always on the corner. Watching. Saw him about town a few times too. I went to the police, but they didn't find anything. Then, one day, he just... stopped. Never saw him again."

Dean had been all set to launch into the usual questions when she started talking. It hadn't seemed to stop, for the last ten minutes, and he was quite startled by the silence. He sat forwards, taking up the stack of photographs to flip through as his brother sat back.

"So, where is she now?" Sam murmured, watching Jackie pace. "Rose?"

It was something in her expression, that gave Jackie away. Something like a grimace.

"Oh. Travelling."

Sam cocked his head to one side. "For how long?"

Jackie smiled vaguely. "However long she needs."

"Alone?" Dean chipped in.

That bought him a sharp glance. "No. With a friend." She scoffed. "Don't even get me started on that one! Strangest man I ever met."

Sam threw his brother a quizzical glance. "How so?"

"Well. This is the strangest part." Jackie set down her own mug, rooting through the box she had brought out from her bedroom, setting down a poster.

It was a police appeal, for a missing girl, her picture in the corner, with a short description and phone number to call with information. Dean swiped it from the table, making the connection between what that doctor, Holmes friend, had mentioned earlier, about her disappearance. He didn't comment, though, simply keeping his gaze on the paper.

"She met him, when she lost her job. Oh, that's another story entirely, lucky she didn't get herself killed in that explosion-"

"What e-"

Jackie didn't pause for breath, didn't acknowledge anyone else had spoken. "Still, she moved on quick enough. He came around the morning after, odd looking fella. Could've been her Father, the age he was, too, and I said as much. Anyway. She went off with him one night. I didn't see her for a year, and that was that. She turned up with him in tow, like nothing had ever happened, and I just about lost my mind."

"Who was he?"

"That's the thing." Jackie smiled morosely, shaking her head. "I don't even know. I still don't know! Not really."

Dean frowned over the edge of the poster. "You met him?"

She nodded. "A few times. Calls himself the Doctor, for gods sake, but I've never seen any evidence of that. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."

Now, that wasn't strictly true, and Jackie well knew it. The days following the spacecraft crashing in London, he had proved himself perfectly capable. More than capable, but strange. Alien, in fact. And there was just something about her only daughter running off with an alien in a box that didn't sit right with Jackie Tyler, and she doubted it ever would.

Ten seconds and she would be back. That's what Rose had said. It hadn't quite worked out that way. And that was why she couldn't bring herself to trust a word that came out of the Doctor's mouth.

"Here, you're not from the government are you? The police?"

Strange question, Dean noted, before shaking his head. "No. Just-"

"Ah. Investigators." Sam cut in, opting for partial honesty. "We're looking for the man in the picture. Anything could help."

Jackie fixed him with as calculating a gaze as she could muster. Instinct, gut instinct, never led her wrong, and she had decided she had said enough- more than enough. "Well. That's all I can tell you, then. Never saw him again."

If anything were a cue to leave, it was that. Sam tapped his brother's leg, indicating they ought to take off, and set his mug down, standing. Reluctantly, Dean followed suit.

"You don't have a way of contacting your daughter?"

"No. She wouldn't remember him. She was only a little girl."

Dean shrugged. "You never know what kids store away."

"It would really help us out. To close this line of enquiry, that is." Sam stepped forwards, pulling up his best smile.

It was an expression that was difficult to resist, and, after a moments wavering, Jackie cracked, turning to hunt down a pen and scrap paper. "Oh, alright. You can try her mobile, but I can almost guarantee she won't answer! It's always switched off. I don't know why she bothers having the bloody thing if she's not going to use it. There you go."

Sam smiled, taking the scrap paper, tucking it away in his jacket pocket. "Mine's on the table. If you think of anything else that might help."

Dean couldn't help but smirk at the almost predatory expression flickering across her face at the mention of a phone number, the primping of hair, or the not-so-subtle tug to tighten her shirt.

"It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Tyler." He clamped a hand around Sam's forearm, leading him out onto the balcony, before she could make her move.


End file.
